


Someone You Adore

by compos_dementis



Category: Psycho (1960)
Genre: Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, No Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 05:45:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3756664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compos_dementis/pseuds/compos_dementis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>California summer heat, an excuse for closeness, and a tiny moment shared between a son and his mother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Someone You Adore

**Author's Note:**

> To listen while you read: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Lmj3tnE8tr8

There’s a soft crackle of sound from downstairs. Norman sits in the dry heat of his bedroom, his long legs stretched out on the mattress, a book propped on his chest that he can’t focus on. Instead he’s staring at the ceiling and listening to the music below; his bedroom door remains open in invitation and no one comes. 

Norman sets his book aside, face-down on the comforter, and he trails his hand along the banister, skin tingling at the contrast of the cool wood on his fingertips compared to the rest of his body.

It’s one of the worst heat spells of the summer. Mother’s been drinking nothing but water and iced tea, complaining of the sweat against her neck, sticking ice cubes against her skin for the momentary relief. Norman’s been watching her do this but hasn’t said much of anything. His own skin is flushed with heat and slightly roasted from the brutal summer sun; he’s got freckles on his nose that hadn’t been there a few weeks ago, and his hair looks darker with sweat. No one at school looks any better, but he’s self conscious all the same.

When he makes it downstairs, he turns the corner to stand, fourteen and gangly in bare feet and a T-shirt, in the entrance to the living room. Norman remains tucked just out of sight because he’s listening, still, and the music is clearer now that he’s closer to the record. Lee Wiley. She’s got a sweet voice, and Norman leans his head against the wall to wait for her to start again, but his mother’s voice muffles the one on the record.

_“Unrequited love’s a bore, and I’ve got it pretty bad...”_

Norman leans in to peer around the corner, shyly. Mother’s reclined against the back of the sofa, face tilted up to the ceiling. The windows are all open to let in what little breeze there is, and the sunlight from outside plays off her yellow hair where she’s got it long and loose. Norman’s eyes trail the stretch from her chin to her throat, and when she swallows, so does he.

And she’s singing, gently in the smothering heat, her voice even warmer still.

_“But for someone you adore, it’s a pleasure to be sad.”_

She dips her fingertips into her glass of iced tea beside her; brings her fingers then to her forehead, over her nose, trying to cool herself down. He can’t watch that, though; his eyes drift lower, to the swell of her chest, lower still, guiltily, until he’s staring at the way her dress clings to her legs. 

His fingers form claws against the doorframe. His heart pounds against the inside of his skull.

Mother shifts her legs like she’s making to stand, and he startles so hard he knocks his elbow harshly against the wall. Mother jumps, too, but says, “You scared the life out of me,” and then, “What are you doing hovering in the doorway? Get in here.”

Norman hesitates before following the instruction, moving from around the corner and into the living room. The music still croons, and he reaches to shut it off, but she says, “No... leave it.” 

His hand retracts. Norman looks at her there, lounging back against the sofa; she’s gathered all the pillows for herself and her already rosy cheeks are red with heat. Her hair is frazzled, too; she looks drained, and ruffled, and altogether like the loveliest thing he’s ever laid eyes on.

“You were singing,” Norman answers her earlier inquiry. “I-I didn’t want to interrupt you. It was nice.”

There’s a small smile that comes over her face at that. That smile she gets where she bites the inside of her lower lip, just slightly, showing teeth. Her arms extend to him, fingers wiggling in invitation.

Norman laughs. “What are you doing?”

“Dance with me.” She flexes her hands into fists, relaxes them again. Norman steps forward and takes her hands into his own, notes how small they are in comparison, pale as though to spite the flush on her face.

“It’s too hot, Mother, you're going to overwork yourself.”

“Psh.” Mother tugs at him, and he takes the hint, pulls her up out of her seat. She doesn’t waste any time maneuvering in close to him, her arms sliding around his shoulders, until he’s got her hair against his nose. “I’ll let you know when I need to sit back down. I just want to spend a few minutes with you.”

It’s not comfortable, having her up against him when they’re both overheated and exhausted, but his arms wrap around her middle, holding her in close despite his body’s protests. 

The smell of her shampoo works its way up his nose, into his brain, takes hold of him there. He can feel the clasps of her dress with his fingertips, hard under the fabric. And her cheek rests against his shoulder, her hands between his shoulder blades, and they’re barely dancing at all, just swaying along to the music, turning gently.

Norman’s heart still beats rapidly. He wonders if she can hear it, where her ear is pressed against him; he wonders if she’s judging, in that silent way, that calm before the storm. But she doesn’t say anything, just closes her eyes, hums along to the music.

“Sing again,” he whispers. Then, “Please.”

She obliges him. Tightens her hold just barely, and when her lips move, her voice digs its way right into his heart.

_“Like a straying baby lamb... with no mammy and no pappy... I’m so unhappy...”_

Norman’s eyes drift closed too. It’s just the two of them with all the windows in the house open, letting the bugs in, and the sunlight, and the heat. But when Mother sings, he can feel it in his core. It twists his heart to hear her so heartfelt; and though he can’t see her, he feels the tiny smile on her face fade away.

_“But oh, so glad...”_


End file.
